Our Town
by tyvian
Summary: A study in team dynamics, and maybe a little more. [ErwinOC, LeviOC]
1. an introduction

**a/n:** here we go! showing you how the team dynamics work, who's who, and what goes where. this intro takes place shortly after the formation of Levi's elite squad, and the series will illustrate the team's defining moments, the friendships (and more), and everything in between. Grete is my (the author of this story) character, and Amsel is my good friend's, who I've mercilessly kidnapped and pretty much spiritually adopted. and yes, this does include OC pairings. dun dunnnnn.

since these characters were created + written about long before any debate on Hanji's gender surfaced, Hanji herself will be referred to with female pronouns here for the sake of convenience. and i think that's it. enjoy!

* * *

**ALL-WEATHER FRIENDS...**

* * *

Petra Ral shifts on her feet and looks at the woman standing beside her in front of the stove. "If you don't mind me asking, Major…?"

The one being asked just hums quietly in reply and turns her eyes to Petra, smiling a bit. "What is it?"

Petra coughs into one closed fist, bashful. "I—ah, was wondering how you manage to make your famous black tea. The taste is wonderful and it seems to be the corporal's favorite, so, I thought—" The younger officer interrupts herself and stares stolidly at the toes of her boots, red rising to her cheeks in a steady flush. Her expression says she thinks she's said too much. Her senior just watches her considerately, and then turns back to the kettle of tea she's brewing.

"Nothing special," she says at last. "I just add some ginger and a sprig of cinnamon. It opens up the flavor."

"Oh, I see," Petra replies, rocking back on her heels. "I'm sorry, if I was—inappropriate, I didn't mean—"

"It's quite alright," the major says, smiling a little. "This is, what, your second week? You're doing very well."

"T-thank you, Major! That means so much coming from someone who's served as long as you," Petra blurts, the color returning to her cheeks in a rush. "I grew up listening to stories about the heroes beyond the walls. I've watched you all from afar for years, and to be in your company now… it's nothing short of amazing."

The petite major laughs openly at that. At a short five foot four (only an inch or two above the Corporal himself), freckled, and often smiling, she's not much of an intimidating sight, but Petra knows better than to judge by outward appearances, especially here in the Corps. She has a pretty face, Petra thinks, the kind that gets sweeter each time you look at it. If memory serves correctly, Major Grete Falkmann lived in the Outer Cities before enlisting—there isn't much available information on her, and when an officer doesn't volunteer it plainly, you just don't ask. The Corps is not a place where people go to make memories. Most are here to escape them.

Petra doesn't know what to make of the major, and she's spent three fourths of her time post-recruitment with the woman—Falkmann is unyieldingly patient, organized, if a little… odd. Everyone here is, Petra supposes. Being chosen as part of the new formation of an elite squad has been nothing short of a dream come true, and it allows her the opportunity to be nearer to a man she often thought was more of a distant ideal than anything real and human. He's not what she expected, but Petra knows the longer she's here the better she will come to know who the corporal is beyond his title.

The easy camaraderie between the veterans of the Legion is something she envies. Even the major, who is studiously polite to all, just calls him 'Levi.' Only the thought of attempting that makes Petra's face grow hot. She wonders if there's a place for her here. Maybe she'll just have to make one.

"We're just like you," Grete assures her before pulling the kettle off the stove and neatly setting it down on its designated spot—which is right in the middle of the tray piled with saucers and biscuits, ready to be served to the officers on downtime that are waiting just outside. The major looks at Petra with her observant brown eyes, and raises one thick brow in thought. "How about you take this to them? God knows I've been playing housemaid long enough."

Petra starts at the sudden generous offer. "You'd… let me do that?"

"Of course," Grete says, tucking a pair of teaspoons into a napkin. "Men are more amiable when they're being treated. Make a good impression. Feed the beasts."

The last bit takes her so by surprise that she chokes on her own spit before being able to laugh at it properly, and she has to wipe her hands down on her uniform to ensure the tray doesn't slip out of her abruptly sweaty palms. "Thank you, Major. I'll make sure not to drop anything."

Grete just smiles again and opens the door for her. "No worries. I can always make more."

When Petra has disappeared beyond the swing of the kitchen door, Grete leans back against the now-silent stove and crosses her arms. "How long have you been there?"

Her friend steps out from behind the back door at the far left of the kitchen, closing it quietly behind her. "Long enough to see you're being oddly friendly," the new arrival says with a questioning tilt of the head.

Amsel has been serving almost as long as Grete herself—though it's taken a while for their friendship to catch up with their work, Amsel likes to think that in a life involving no titans or egomaniacal short men who have obsessions with _cleaning_, they might have been born under the same roof. Unfortunately for them, this life is all they've got, and in this one they still look as different as two people possibly can. No one looking offhandedly at the major and first lieutenant would guess at anything beyond a professional tolerance: after all, Amsel is the kind of woman who looks like business, while Grete… looks more like she comes with situations that would definitely include a bakery.

"_Oddly_ friendly?" Grete asks, smiling a little when Amsel decisively blows a chunk of her black hair away from her eyes with a strong huff of breath. She's always reminded Grete of the lanky dogs that circled the neighborhoods of her old home, the ones with careful eyes and wary step, always a breath away from being thin enough to be considered starved, but never short on rampant spirit and good cheer.

"Oddly friendly," Amsel repeats as a confirmation and draws a chair out for herself. She sits on it with its back to her front, straddling it as though it's a saddle. "Or did I imagine the whole recipe-sharing bit?"

"You didn't," Grete says, pursing her lips. "I just thought… it'd be a good way for her to feel more comfortable."

Amsel snorts, her striking eyes moving to the door Petra had walked out through. "She doesn't seem to be having any trouble."

"I couldn't say no," the major mumbles, shrugging.

"You've been sweet on that moron for almost as long as I've known you," Amsel says with her usual tact (none). "And now he has a groupie."

Grete ruffles the curls at her temples, trying to keep from thinking of the swell of emotions that rises in her at the mention of anything other than tea. Tea is nice and safe. And it doesn't make you feel like crap.

"It's not like anything could or would happen," Grete says softly, turning to fiddle with the utensils that were misplaced by her presence in the kitchen. "He… doesn't think of me that way."

"You can't know," Amsel points out, "since you've never tried. You're way too patient. What has it been? Five years, almost six? Good God, Grete. How are you functioning?"

The major looks at Amsel over her shoulder, and it's long enough for Amsel to see her friend's face is just as red as she'd thought it'd be. "I get by," Grete says, the words barely managing to escape her mouth. _Embarrassing. _

"It's more fun when it's a communal thing," the lieutenant goes on, unhurriedly, smiling a little when Grete fumbles with the sugar-pot. This is entirely too easy. "It's _even _better when the person on the other end is someone you like… someone you wouldn't mind going over to and—"

"_La la la_," Grete says at the top of her lungs, blocking her ears with her hands. "_I can't hear you, we're not having this conversation, la la la!"_

"Very mature."

"The sky is so blue, the fields are so green, what a lovely morning for a stroll!"

"You could try getting him via serenade. I'm willing to bet he's never had a singing country girl flinging herself at him."

"_Still can't hear you!_"

* * *

Günther's knees are still shaking when the first lieutenant lands beside him, sleek as a cat and just as quiet. She trots over to him, gliding more than walking. And holy hell, is she a welcome sight after what just happened. His stomach roils at the smell of decomposing titan. The steam—it's got a metallic scent, not like blood, tinnier, thicker. He wants to get up and move away but his legs won't let him.

"Hey, Schultz," the lieutenant says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he sputters, trying to get up, and then he feels it. Oh no. No. _Crap!_

Amsel looks down at the traitorous dark spot on his trousers, and her face tightens to a point, like she's tasted something sour. Her nose twitches, up, and then to the side. "Ah. I hear it's common for first-timers. At least you didn't get eaten."

"You're pretty shit at comforting people," he says before he can stop himself. It's the shock. It's totally destroyed any sort of boundaries he may have had. He can still remember the snap of gigantic teeth, only inches away from his legs, and the scream the titan made when the lieutenant took it down. No amount of training could have ever prepared him for this.

"Yeah, I suppose I am," Amsel says, and then hauls him up with a strength that steals the breath from his lungs. The powerful muscles in her shoulders work as she sets him on his feet. The woman could lift an ox! "Now let's get off ground. Big, ugly, and stupid over there has a twin that's still lumbering around here somewhere. I'm not going to explain anything to Sir Shortstack if you get yourself killed. Regroup at the southern pass."

The lieutenant disappears in a plume of gas and pressurized air, her 3DMG working furiously as she rappels up the trunk of a monstrous tree. He has to get his bearings. He knows she'll leave him behind if he doesn't work fast enough—he can't hold her back out here. This is his first mission, and he's not going to screw it up. They'll get better.

He hopes they will.

They have to, right?

* * *

"Sit still," Grete says as she snips away at the uneven strands at Amsel's nape with choice strokes of her scissors.

"Why am I letting you do this again?" Amsel asks through the shaggy fall of her hair. Her entire face is obscured by it, and portions of it pepper the towel around her shoulders and the tiles at her feet.

"Because you've been doing it yourself for so long that you decided you needed a change this year," the major replies easily, combing her free hand through Amsel's hair and shaking any loose bits free. It's soft and dense, if a little coarse toward the ends, and fine as fur.

"I'd better not be bald when this is over," Amsel growls, and to her surprise Grete whips the towel away and tells her to sit up, handing her a small mirror.

Grete steps back and grins, hands on hips. "So?"

Amsel blinks at her new reflection, surprised at the attractive way with which her half-wet, mussed hair frames her face. She didn't know she could look anything like that.

"…It's alright."

"Good. Now grab a broom and help me pick this mess up. You shed like crazy."

"Keep making barnyard allusions and I won't help you at _all_."

* * *

"Hanji, listen to me."

She's not listening.

Grete tries again. "Hanji. _Hanji_."

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"Promise me you're not going to do anything," Grete says, setting her hands on Hanji's shoulders. This is the only time she can do something like that—when Hanji is seated. Everyone around here is too damn tall.

Hanji's glasses glint as she looks up at Grete. "Do anything? That's a really general promise."

"You know what I mean!"

"He doesn't appreciate you enough. Maybe I'll just get you back to Fourth Squad. You were _my _assistant and our veterinary supervisor before you were his… whatever."

"Hanji!"

"I'm just saying our corporal may need to be taught a lesson."

"Oh, I give up."

* * *

You never see Erwin without Amsel following close behind.

She's as good a shadow as his real one, and much more entertaining. At least, she hopes she is.

He's not moving right now. Just sorting some papers, like he always seems to be doing in his spare time. He doesn't sleep as much as he should, even though she tries helping with that—he's always on the move, always doing something, always thinking two, three, four steps ahead of everyone else. She doesn't know how he does it. There's some sort of tireless, forever waking source of strength working in him, the sort she's been privy to before, but strength like that doesn't come from absolutely anything less than fighting for your life, tooth and nail.

Erwin Smith is a puzzle. One she intends on dismantling entirely.

"Is there something you'd like to say?"

His speaking draws her gaze down to his lips. Ah, but he is a pretty, pretty man. Perhaps pretty isn't really the right word. It's more like _fairytale book handsome. _Stupid git. No one should have the ability to look that good.

"No, nothing in particular," she says, swiveling around in her chair.

"You've been staring for quite a while."

"It's a free country," Amsel retorts, kicking one foot out. "A woman can do what she wants."

"If you're just going to sit there, I might have to ask you to leave," he says with a perfect poker-face, the one he puts on when he definitely wants to toe the line between confusing her and being playful. He has an awkward, cumbersome way of engaging with people outside of being the impregnable commander everyone knows him to be, and she finds it—endearing. Endearing that he trusts her enough to use her to teach himself about being teasing and silly and everything in between. God, listen to her. She's gone soft.

"In that case…" She stretches slowly and watches him with interested eyes as she pillows her chin on her arms. "I can think of a few things that could help with passing the time."

She's about to forego her seat entirely when a strange sound interrupts her train of thought. They both shift to look at the door of the office as the sound sharpens into a clear set of thudding footsteps. Whoever it is on the other side of that door is running—and fast. Speaking of which, aforementioned door slams open with an ear-shattering _POP_ only to reveal a very breathless and red-faced Grete standing there.

"Commander…!" she gasps, bending over and putting her hands on her knees. "I'm sorry… to burst in on you… like this…"

"Take a breath before you pass out," Amsel says in concern. "Where the hell did you run from? You never get tired."

"_Training grounds_," Grete manages and wipes away the curls around her face.

"Without a break? Are you crazy?"

"Need to know—have either of you… seen Hanji?"

Silence.

Grete's expression edges into the desperate. "_Please think._"

Amsel appraises her for a moment. "She said she'd be here, didn't she?"

And Grete hangs her head. Jackpot.

"You'd think that after four years, I'd stop falling for it."

"You'd _think_," Amsel adds helpfully, and behind her Erwin shuffles the papers on his desk.

"She said something about settling an outstanding debt," the commander says, pushing the now-even stack of papers to the side. "The last time we talked she was headed to the equipment shack."

Grete freezes before a look that can only be described as abject terror comes over her face. "I have to go! I'm so sorry for the interruption, again. Thank you, Commander! Thank you!"

She doesn't even shut the door on her way out, just turns on her heel and races the other way. They're both still staring at the doorway as her footsteps fade away into silence again. Amsel has to be grateful for the fact that Grete didn't bust in on them any later—that may have been a bit awkward to explain. Erwin gazes at her questioningly, asking what just happened without words, and she shrugs once more.

"I don't even want to know."

* * *

Levi only observes as Grete quickly prepares her horse's tack, every one of her movements swift and measured. She's done this more times than he cares to know. The more methodical sides of her still surprise him, even after so long—and after so much.

She pats her forehead with the back of one wrist, steps back, and then seems to realize he's staring. "Did you need something else besides the spare parts?"

"No," he says, and he knows it's true though he's still very much standing here. "Nothing."

She looks at him a little oddly then, but smiles afterward just like he expects her to. "Alright then."

* * *

_**...ARE FRIENDS FOREVER.**_


	2. the one where Grete does burst in

**0. THE FOOL**

_a lack of practicality; search for meaning_

"If you hear a different drummer-

dreamer, take a chance.

The road you choose to travel

is the difference in the dance."

- D. Morgan

–

He walks like a commander. Talks like one, looks like one, acts like one. She's almost certain he has a handbook on how to maximize commander-looking assets, including that hair. She can hardly keep hers calm enough to tie it back, let alone convince it to stay evenly parted down the middle like she's a schoolboy who devotes three hours a day to performing acrobatics with a comb. She tells him so. It doesn't seem to affect him. He just "hm hm"s at her in that infuriating, unintentionally dismissing way of his and keeps reading through his reports.

Fine. She can do dismissive. In fact, she can do better than dismissive. Provocation has obviously not worked. The logical next step is direct contact. He once told her that no plan survives _direct contact_ with the enemy, and she supposes he was right. She'll just have to wing it.

He does look up at her over the rim of his glasses, glinting silver in the morning light, when she sits on the corner of his desk and leans an elbow on her knee, chin cradled in her palm. He goes back to working after he throws her a slightly suspicious sideways glance, those magnificent brows almost meeting over his eyes. He does have lovely eyes- gunmetal grey, edged with blue, but that doesn't show unless he's looking into the sun- then again, most of the things he's got are lovely.

"What are you doing?" he asks after she clears her throat quietly.

"Scouting beyond enemy lines," she says airily, and in one smooth motion reaches over and plucks the glasses off his face.

"Amsel - I need those."

She sets them aside on the desk and flicks them away with a quick snap. They skid to the edge of the table and stop there, half-folded.

"No, you don't," she says, brushing her hand against his knuckles, smiling when he breathes sharply through his nose at the proximity. "Unless you have a thing for glasses. Which, I guess, is totally possible. You wouldn't say anything about it if you did, though. You can be very reclusive."

"A trait born of necessity," he replies. "And you are persistent."

"It's a part of my charming personality and disarming wit," she assures him, and blows a strand of hair out of her face with a decisive puff of air.

He sighs and rubs the side of one temple, closing his eyes. "What do you want?"

She purses her lips. "Why do you love asking rhetorical questions?"

It might be a trick of the light, but she thinks she sees a flush of red appear on his cheeks. He always has been surprisingly proper for a man of his standing, and for the things he's seen.

"I'm working."

"Well, you've worked enough to last yourself a lifetime or two," she says, letting her voice drag on the last word longer than it needs to. "A little procrastination won't kill you. In fact, it may actually help."

"Say what you want to say," he begins, standing up, so that the collar of his shirt is level with her eyes. "Or don't say anything at all."

His hands rest on the desk on either side of her, caging her in, but she's not much inclined to complain. She just watches him from behind the curl of her black hair, amused, perhaps even interested, eyes bright with yellow fire. She could stare a fly into burning up, if she could, but that's not something he'll let her know- she's confident enough already without his help, and they both know he thinks it. That's always seemed to be good enough for her, and so it'll be until the day she needs to hear it.

She smiles when he threads his fingers through her hair and moves it away from her line of sight. "You should cut it," he remarks, and the warm wash of his breath at her cheek makes her smile again.

"Wow," she says, completely ignoring the suggestion. "I can't decide whether you look better with the glasses on, or off."

This time he laughs, and it's a rare, precious sound that doesn't appear with the frequency she'd like it to in her life, so she only keeps looking, drinking the sight of him in, staying still even when he's close enough for their noses to bump.

"It might be off... but I'll have to inspect further to make sure."

"Lieutenant?"

"Hm?"

"Be quiet."

Now she laughs instead. "Yes, sir."

* * *

The morning hasn't been going particularly well for Major Grete Falkmann, particularly when she almost loses her way up the stairs and some of the carefully-filed reports in her arms go sailing above the bannister. She has to make the trip down the stairs twice because the first time she misses some papers that have gathered by the bottom stair.

By the time she makes it to the Commander's office, her arms are aching with the weight of the files and she's dying to scratch the side of her nose but just _can't_ because that means letting go of the papers- and letting go of the papers means absolute disaster. She'll scream if she has to pick them up again. Keep calm, she tells herself, it's only a few more feet. A few more feet and then she'll be able to scratch the side of that blasted nostril to her heart's content.

She debates for a moment about whether or not to knock. The Commander is always telling her she doesn't have to, that they're so familiar that after seven years of working together knocking shouldn't have to be more than a formality. And she's never listened, really, but today she will (mostly because of that goddamn itch). Grete pushes the door open with the toe of her boot, ready to be relieved of the horrible reports. Oh, what she'd do for a lemonade right about now.

"Commander, I've brought the reports you - asked... me... to..."

Her vision doubles out - blurs out, unfocuses - whatever you'd like to call it, somewhere around the point where she sees that the Commander's shirt is open three buttons down and the woman she considers a sister has no shirt on _at all_. It's alright, says the little voice in her head, somewhere over the roar of her embarrassment, at least she's wearing a brassiere!

"_No!_ OH, my Lord - I - I'm so sorry, I didn't mean - I have to - where are the... oh my God, I'm so sorry!"

The itch is completely gone. Gone, like it never was. Now there's just an inferno burning across her cheeks. She can't even think, nor bow because of the reports in her arms. She just stands there, looking stupendously out of place and stupid in the doorway. The Commander has turned his head around so far she's sure he could be an owl if he tried very hard.

"My apolo-logies, I had no idea - _I'M SORRY_!"

And as she turns on her heel and makes fast progress down the hall, listening to the sound of Amsel's cheerful laughter, she realizes she didn't even leave the reports behind.


	3. the one without a shirt

**1. THE MAGICIAN**

_enlightenment and accomplishment_

"the best magician in the world

can't pull a rabbit out of a hat,

unless there's already a rabbit in the hat."

- unknown

* * *

_She knows that the way the breeze feels in her hair is probably not what it'd be like in real life, but it's all she has right now. It smells of brine and adventure and new things and wet sand. She feels like she could fly. The sunlit glare on the ocean surface makes her shield her eyes with an arm, but it's a sight she could spend the rest of her life watching without feeling the slow creep of boredom. _

_Things are right here, where the rocks stand tall, their bold faces veiled behind the crash of foam and the spray of waves; the tide sounds a little too much like thunder, but she supposes that's because she's never actually heard waves- she can forget that, here, where the world is caught forever in the moment between morning dark and the beginning of dawn, and the dangers of waking are like a distant, unpleasant fog. She wants to stay. _

_Grandpa had brought her sand in a bottle, once, and she'd kept it on her desk, often lifting it into the light to see the way the grains would sparkle and react to the change. "Keep it safe," Grandpa had said, his grizzled hands closing around hers. "I brought it just for you, ladybug. It's yours now."_

"_What is it?"_

"_Sand. It comes from the shore near something called the ocean."_

_He'd explained to her what that was that afternoon, and then made her promise she wouldn't talk about it to any of her friends- not that she had many to tell, but the sentiment remained. Grandpa had left some years later, the way he always had done, straw hat doffed and backpack carefully hidden underneath his long coat, and he'd never come back. _

_She'd sit at her window and watch the people coming in through the gate, but Grandpa hadn't ever been among them again. And the bottle had stayed where she put it, and the sand kept dry while the cap rusted and the glass grew misted with age; on the night she finally bridged the gap between understanding and fantasy and cried herself to sleep with the thoughts of her grandfather alive in her mind, she'd hugged the bottle to her chest and wondered at the salty, suburned smell of the sand. When she'd eventually dropped off into exhausted slumber, she had been imagining Grandpa sitting at the foot of her bed as he had done when she'd been younger, mouthing his worn wooden pipe, there to pat her feet through the blankets and wipe her brow if she ever woke from a fearful nightmare. _

_The bottle had left little marks and indents in the skin of her arms and neck, but she hadn't minded. Her mother had found her huddled up in the coverlets, sniffling and unhappy, and before anyone could get out so much as a "good morning" out she'd burst from her fabric cocoon, hands still clutching the bottle, cheeks red with shame. _

"_I miss him!"_

_She'd watched as her mother's eyes filled with understanding, and then with tears, and they'd sat together and wept and her mother had held her, sorry beyond words that her daughter had stumbled across a sorrow that would stay with her forever. _

_That's one thought too many. The sky begins to grow dark, the sea wild. The rocks are melting, wilting like granite flowers, twisting, becoming trees taller than the towers in the Inner Cities. Green appears around her out of the forest mist, and when she tries to move she finds she is mired knee-deep in freezing mud. Her mouth tastes of soil and blood. This is her first mission. She has to be ready. She has to prepare herself- she has to... _

_She can't remember what she has to do, only that she's scared, and that she's sure she'll fail, and that her mother will be disappointed. She's going to be finished here in the muck, cold, alone and terrified. An underwhelming end for an underwhelming person. The mud gets under her nails when she tries to crawl away. She has to escape. _

_It's all she's thinking about while her neck breaks._

* * *

It takes her about two minutes to realize that she hasn't gone blind when she wakes up - it's just that dark, and she's turned face-first into her pillows with the sheets tangling around her legs.

She kicks them off and makes a disgusted noise at the feeling of her nightclothes clinging to her. She tears the shirt away, almost crying when it doesn't move past her head fast enough, and lets it fall from the side of the bed. She sits there with her bare back against the headboard, wiping the sticky strands of hair from her face and breathing as quietly as she can to stop the stinging in her eyes from overcoming her. It was just a dream. She hasn't had one in a while, and it's alright. The sun will rise soon and all will be well again.

The dark isn't bad, she tells herself as she presses her face into the crook of her elbow to shut out the sight of the shadows creeping around the foot of her bed. Her mind is what makes it bad. Stop, she's thinking. Stop, you're not a child anymore, hiding in the barn with a jar of fireflies to keep the night away. You're a soldier.

The more she repeats it, the less she believes it.

Her room looks different during the nighttime, different and foreign and nearly unsettling. The desk and its curling legs reminds her of the sad twist of dead horses, trampled underfoot and left to lie where they fell, sometimes crushed together with their riders- the long mouth of the window is a gaping jaw, hot breath and gnashing teeth with scraps of people caught between them; and the gloom of the doorway is the corridor between trees, old and unhelpful and silent while they watch men die. Is there really such little good and beautiful in the world?

In the daylight, she may have known the answer or been certain of it. But now in her small room in the eastern wing of the rambling castle the Corps calls HQ, all she is is small and fearful and nothing like a soldier.

It makes her wonder how it is she's survived this far.

* * *

Amsel is working her way through a slice of bread lathered with fresh butter and jam when Hanji whirls into sight and sits down at the table, making the plates at her wrist rattle and the mouthful of bread in her throat to stick halfway down. She's coughing when Hanji finally makes herself comfortable enough to start talking.

"Hey - have you seen Grete? She missed first rolecall and she's always up before everyone else. I haven't talked to her since last night, and she seemed a little weird then. Maybe it was the stew? I knew I shouldn't have let the newbies help with the cooking. Ugh, what if she has food poisoning? She's the best at chores! Oh man, I hope she's alright. It's a good thing I wasn't hungry last night. I had some reports to finish."

Maybe pounding at the cavity beneath her breast will help with dislodging the bread. She tries that next.

"You're awfully quiet this morning! Did you know you've got butter on your nose? It's a very neat spot, just right there on the tip, and- ... are you alright?"

The last punch finally makes the knot in her gullet disappear. Amsel gasps for breath and is certain crumbs are going to start falling out of her nose. Goddamn.

"Thanks for noticing," she rasps, and reaches for a glass of water. "And no, I haven't seen her either."

"Do you think she overslept?" Hanji asks. She takes off her glasses and begins wiping them clean on her loose undershirt.

"I wasn't aware that was even possible for her," the Lieutenant answers, trying to think of a time she's ever known Grete to get up even minutes after the absolute crack of dawn. "She may just not be feeling well."

"I hope it's something that simple," Hanji murmurs as she spreads a generous dollop of goat cheese on toast. "She gets up to work even when she's got a fever, so if it's keeping her to bed it must be something pretty bad."

"We can go check on her after breakfast," Amsel offers, and moves to pick up her food again again. "But that's not going to happen if I die because you make me choke on whole-wheat bread, so no sudden movements for the next twenty minutes or I'll cream you with the milk pitcher."

"I'll do my best."

"Good."

* * *

To what might have been the relief of her friends, Grete had really just overslept - rare enough, but true.

She won't remember falling asleep when she wakes up later, and would have no way of knowing she'd just fallen forward sometime during the wee grey hours of the morning and curled up amongst the tumbled sheets and given into an exhausted slumber. She doesn't even notice when the door to her room opens and shuts- none too quietly, either- and someone comes to stand at the side of the bed. He looks around the room with a bit of a frown of his face. It's not sparkling, but it's good enough for now, he supposes. He might have to revisit later.

"Falkmann, you missed rolecall," he says, despite the fact that he's preoccupied with the lining of dust on the edge of her desk. "Falkmann. ...Grete?"

Now he turns to look at her for the first time, and realizes she's still fast asleep.

She looks a little vulnerable lying there, her hands folded under her chin, knees drawn up, face pressed into the mattress and hair falling over her closed eyes. Hasn't she gotten a crick in the neck, twisted up the way she is? He reaches out, unsure of what he even wants to do, and is in the middle of trying to decide when he finally becomes conscious of the fact that the only thing she's wearing above the waist is her own skin.

"Idiot," he chews out though he knows she can't hear him, and then slides a corner of the sheet at her elbow over her. "You're going to catch a cold."

* * *

"Wow, you look like shit."

She sighs as she fastens the clasps of her harness across her chest and grabs the last of the straps from her nightstand. Getting out of bed had been harder than she thought it would be. "Thanks. I know."

"Rough night?"

She's running a hand through the short frizz of her curls when she turns to face Amsel. "You could say that. Did I miss a lot?"

The tall woman leaned against her doorway shrugs, watching her from beneath the jagged fringe of her soft black hair. "Not much. Hanji had to fly off to do some work and tie up some experiments. Whatever that means. I'd rather not know."

"Probably not," Grete agrees, and then starts slipping into her boots. "I should get down to the stables."

"You'd live there if you could. Chill. Get something to eat first," Amsel says, bumping her gently on the shoulder with one fist. "We don't have much to do anyway. Things have kind of been slow since last week."

Grete finishes fiddling with her boots and kicks in the toes before she moves to take her jacket from the back of her desk-chair, the movements practiced and smooth. "Oh, and uh, before I forget - thanks for checking in on me earlier."

"Earlier?"

"Yeah. Didn't you... come in? And - the sheet...?"

"... No."

Amsel watches as Grete goes pink, and then scarlet, and laughs when Grete ducks her head and covers her cheeks with her hands. "Awww, who knew he had it in him?"

"Shut up. We don't know for sure."

"Uh-huh. Because everyone else in here creeps into your room before breakfast's done. Absolutely everyone. How does Moblit do with sorting shirts? I've been thinking about having him do mine for a while."

"Ahhh, be quiet!"

Amsel lets Grete shove her out of the doorway and only grins while her friend fumbles with the doorknob and then tries marching down the hallway. Tries being the operative word - it's difficult to do as much with such short legs. It's too easy to catch up to her and rest a hand on her head.

"This is an awful lot of bother for a morning checkup," Amsel says, and feels Grete hang her head. She has to lean it to catch Grete's next bit of muttering, that's so quiet she may have missed if it she hadn't been paying attention.

"I... may have... last night... slept... topless..."

She almost chokes on her own saliva. "You _what?"_

"I was _sweaty _and I fell asleep before getting a change on and... my God, I want to die. Do you think any of the containment holes in Hanji's field are deep enough for me to crawl in and never get out?"

"I am so proud of you."

"Shut up."

"You've said that already. You know, though, most of the time couples do some other things before jumping straight to stripping. The reverse is kind of more of _my_ thing."

"I hate you. You're a horrible person."

"Good morning to you too."

* * *

**a/n: **thank you to all who reviewed and alerted, you're sweethearts uwu


	4. the one with bears

**2. THE HIGH PRIESTESS**

_emotions and understanding_

"it's not what you look at that matters,

it's what you see."

- Henry David Thoreau

* * *

Grete is already in her nightshirt and finishing up some late work when someone pounds on her door loud enough to make her jump out of her seat. She scrambles for the door and yanks it open only to find Amsel standing there in the doorway, looking pale and drawn and for all intents and purposes as though she's about to be ill. Grete takes Amsel's hands in hers, frowning at the chill clinging to Amsel's fingers.

"Are you alright? Are you in pain? Do you feel sick? We could go to the - "

"I have a problem," Amsel says quietly, and Grete stops to listen to her. They wait there in the doorway for about half a minute before Amsel can continue, and even then the words sound labored and difficult to force out. "I like him. I like him... a lot."

And that's when Grete pulls her in by the hands, kicks the door shut behind her best friend, and goes looking for the biscuits she keeps in a jar in the cabinet of her desk.

Two cinnamon-chip biscuits, ten minutes, and one glass of warm milk later, Amsel is leaning on the wall Grete's bed is pressed up against, swaddled in blankets like a child with Grete sitting across her, feet crossed and hands clasped loosely in her lap.

"...Are these _bears_?" Amsel asks as she squints at the knitted coverlet, and Grete shooshes her.

"That's beside the point. You said you had a problem."

"Ugh. Yeah. _That_."

They wait in silence until Grete scoots closer, eyes wide and expectant. "Well?"

Amsel pulls the coverlet closer, bears and all, and presses her face to it. It smells like ginger and lavender and mint- Grete's smell that lingers on everything in this room. She doesn't think she'll ever understand Grete's propensity toward giving, even now. She sometimes doesn't even understand how they ended up being friends in the first place, but Grete is here- and so are her wonderful biscuits. Amsel lifts her head and blows the hair from her face before she tries talking again.

"I don't know what to do," she finally says, and Grete smiles a kind smile at her before reaching out to brush the stubborn hair out of Amsel's eyes with a gentle hand.

"I think that's normal when it comes to matters of the heart," Grete tells her.

"When you put it that way it sounds almost... romantic."

Grete laughs. "Why are you making that face? It is, isn't it? What were the odds of you being recruited the way you were and falling in love?"

Amsel chokes on her next bite of biscuit, and crumbs almost go flying when she gasps in surprise. "Whoa, whoa- who said _anything _about-...love?"

"It's written all over your face," Grete says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. "And the way you look at him. Did you know that when you talk about him you smile? Really _smile_. Like you're... happy. It's plain as day if you know where to look."

Amsel sinks deeper into the blanket. She's starting to wish it could swallow her. God, are her cheeks burning? They are burning. Shit.

"You're starting to sound like an old lady," Amsel mumbles, but it just makes Grete laugh again.

"It's true, though," Grete says. She ducks Amsel under the chin to make her look up. "I've known Commander Erwin for a good number of years. I've watched him _become_ the Commander everyone knows him to be. And I can honestly tell you, without hesitation... it's the first time I've ever seen him have something of his own to fight for. You're important to him."

Now the red spreads from her cheeks to her ears. She feels her nose warm. "I... uh..."

Grete holds up a hand. "Not done with my sappy speech yet!" she says softly, and then continues to talk. "I think... when he first became Commander, he consciously gave up on everything anyone inside the walls could have. Family. Stability. Calm. Affection. Certainty. We all do, when we join the Corps. But we've found things like them, and I don't believe he expected it. You're really very good for him. You suit each other. You stay at his side as an equal instead of having to wait for him. And I think he's found a sort of freedom in it."

"...You've been waiting all month to say that, haven't you?" Amsel says, now certain she'll never be able to regain proper coloring in her face again.

"Yep!" Grete admits without any hesitation, rocking back. "I even wrote some of it out so I wouldn't forget."

"You are such an idiot," Amsel says in disbelief, freeing a hand from the coverlet so she can playfully smack Grete on the forehead. "Oh my _God_. How can you say such embarrassing things with a completely straight face?"

"Someone has to," Grete answers, and then reaches for a biscuit herself before offering the jar to Amsel. She takes one as well.

"And you totally believe it all, right?"

"Of course. I wouldn't say it if I didn't."

"Why do I even ask?" Amsel wonders aloud before she takes a bite of her biscuit.

"Do you feel better?" Grete says, brushing crumbs from her lips.

"Yeah. As stupid as that sounds. I didn't even really say anything," Amsel replies and burrows her feet deeper under the coverlet. It gets cold in HQ after dark.

Grete shrugs and stretches, wiggling her toes in her ridiculous striped woolen socks. "Sometimes all you have to do is listen. So... are you ever going to tell him?"

That's all it takes for the next chunk of biscuit to go down the wrong way.

"Shit! I'm sorry-my God, you're turning blue- wait, let me get some water. Hang on!"

Well... it had been almost perfect.

* * *

Levi watches with detached interest as Grete merrily mops away some of yesterday's dust. She's been especially jolly today, almost bouncing from chore to chore, whistling under her breath while she shines the tables... something has happened he's not aware of. It bothers him.

He's able to go back to work until he realizes she's stopped, and propped her chin up on her knuckles around the top of the mop handle. He follows the track of her eyes across the hallway, to where Erwin is standing over a tactical map, appraising the track they've been plotting their next expedition along- he always gets jumpy a few days before missions, always jittery and eager to get everything in order and correct. Part of the routine includes nonstop poring over maps. It's always bothered Levi like no other.

Grete's grin grows when the beanpole standing across Erwin leans over to point something out on the map. The beanpole's shirt is rumpled and unironed and not tucked-in- as usual. Ugh.

"What are you leering at?" he asks her, the irritation showing more clearly in his voice than he'd like.

Grete just looks back at him, eyes twinkling. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"Oh, we're in a good mood this morning, I see."

"My mood is _fine_."

She's still grinning as she leans over, hooks her fingers into the elastic bands of his cleaning mask. She pulls, pauses, and then lets go. The widening of his eyes at the crack of the mask snapping back in place makes her throw her head back and laugh.

What a bother.


	5. the one with all the talking

**3. THE EMPRESS**

_cooperation and reception_

"There are two ways of spreading light...

to be the candle, or the mirror that

reflects it."

- unknown

* * *

It's the first time in years that he sees her even somewhat displeased with them.

She's following Hanji through the long grass- not wearing a jacket today, so the clasps of the harness across her shoulders and around her waist glint in the sun whenever they catch the light right. Hanji is practically gliding over the ground to where the steaming ruin of Eren's titan arm lies, her hands outstretched and eyes shining. She's babbling on about something of vascular properties and the correlation between efficiency and skinlessness. All he hears is noise.

While Hanji proves her love to the arm and burns her palms on it, Grete shoulders her way past Moblit and comes to stand in front of them, disbelief and unhappiness clear in her eyes.

"What are you doing?" she says, looking around at her teammates as though she's just met them. "All of you... what are you doing?"

He doesn't involve himself when Gunther forces out an explanation. He's well aware by the looks on the squad-members' faces that they all know it sounds stupid said aloud.

"So you drew your blades on him?" Grete explodes at the end of it, and he raises his brow at the volume. "What in the world were you thinking? It's not a goddamn skeleton, it's an _arm! He's on our side!_"

"Then tell me why didn't this happen earlier, when it was supposed to?" Oluo counters in a tone bristling with hostility. He's never been good at addressing his seniors respectably.

"Look at him!" the major thunders, pointing at the boy still attached to the arm who flinches at the renewed attention directed at him. Grete's cheeks are red with anger, freckles standing out against her skin like little brown stars. "Does he _look_ like he's in control? You're projecting your own fears and insecurities on a kid!"

"Major Falkmann," Jaeger says, and she stops to turn to him. "It's... alright. I just- it's okay. Thank you."

She stills like a bucket of ice water's been upended over her head and then she swivels on her heel and moves to start picking the things scattered in the blast.

The minute she's out of earshot, Oluo scoffs in a way that would have guaranteed Levi choking him were he not as good as he is with 3DMG.

"What the hell is _her _problem?"

Hanji looks up from where she's working on helping Eren pull free of the arm. "Grete comes from the same town as Eren. I don't think she took very kindly to you accusing him of aiding the titans."

Eren turns to the squad leader in shock, the whites of his eyes so big they could pass as saucers. "She's..."

"She knows what you've been through like no one else here," Hanji says as she leans down to yank Eren's wrist free.

"How come we had no idea?!" Oluo all but shrieks, apparently having forgotten Eren and his immediate sense of urgency already.

"She doesn't like spreading it around."

There's a swooshing sound of scraping metal as Petra sheathes her blades. "I... never even guessed."

"Like I - _said!_" Hanji grunts as one of Eren's fingers comes loose and steam rises from the junction where the flesh has separated. "She goes through great pains to stop anyone from finding out. She has this silly idea that people will pity her if they know."

No one talks much after that except for Hanji lamenting the loss of the arm after it starts dissolving. Jaeger retreats to a quiet corner before Hanji can corner him and then drags himself over to where Falkmann is bent next to the upturned table and gathering shattered pieces of the plates they'd used. The boy looks tall in comparison to her even at just fifteen, dark where Grete is dusty and light- even his hands are larger, evident when she smacks his fingers away after he tries picking up a shard of a lone teacup.

"You might get cut," Levi hears her say.

"I have regeneration capabilities, Major. One cut doesn't really make much of a difference."

She shakes her head. "Well, it still hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yeah..."

"Avoiding needless pain is plenty of difference," she continues, and hits her mark again. Jaeger yelps in surprise.

"Ow! You weren't even looking!"

"I can still tell."

"That's freaky."

"'That's freaky...?'"

"Uh - ma'am."

Grete smiles as she ruffles the kid's hair and bops him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm just messing with you." She turns back to finish her work, the line of her shoulders tautening under the white shroud of her undershirt. She's always been like this, hating suffering, putting herself in its way, whether the harm comes in the form of ten-meter-classes or shattered saucers.

"You said... you were there. That day?"

Her hands still and she turns her face to him, and he sees that the color has drained out of her cheeks.

"I was," she admits, though her mouth doesn't seem to move. "I... was on leave. Visiting family. My mother - "

She stops and looks down at the pieces of the plates she's gathered. "Sorry. You'd think... I could talk without pausing. It's been five years already. Going on six," she says, laughing weakly. Grete leans over to grasp an upturned teacup that's surprisingly been spared. "We used to live right by the gates. I was always... the first out to see people from outside returning."

"I apologize," Eren says, looking like he's swallowed a particularly sour lemon. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No," Grete murmurs. "It's alright. You have a right. You're Doctor Jaeger's son, right?"

"I am," Eren answers, not knowing whether he should be saying 'was' instead.

"My dad was the idiot that reshod your horse the time it got a pebble under its shoe," she continues. "He didn't know she was head-shy and he got kicked in the rear. He had a mark for weeks."

Eren looks at her with surprise. "Did your mother... run a bakery?"

"The very same," Grete says, now smiling a little more easily. "She always made me get up early to prepare the dough for the morning breads. I miss her."

"My mother - she also..."

"We all lost something," the major fills in for him when he can't finish his sentence. "I had the Survey Corps to turn to."

* * *

"_Take your children and get to the boats!"_

_Her throat is raw from screaming and titan blood is steaming from her hands and shoulders. The weight of the 3DMG she took from a dead Garrisoner twisted in the rubble sits heavily on her waist. She's down to her last set of blades. Too much. Too little time. She grasps at the arm of a woman knelt in front of her and yanks upward. _

"_Stand up!" she roars in the woman's face with more conviction than she feels. "Stand up if you want to live!"_

"_I can't," the woman sobs, smudging the gore on her cheek with her knuckles. "It's all gone and I can't... I can't!"_

_She grips the woman's hands so tightly something pops and cracks. The woman cries out in pain but Grete doesn't even register the sound. "I just watched my house disappear," she says, as though shaking the civilian in her grasp is going to make the tears streaming down her cheeks somehow evaporate. Her voice rolls from a whisper to a rasp to a rattling howl. "If I can work, then you... can run!" _

_The woman scrambles away from her, more scared than convinced, but it gets her to move so Grete doesn't mind. She turns just as the jarring in her teeth begins. She feels it in the ground, in the bones in her legs, in the links of her spine and the air in her ears. It's a wide seven-meter class, not tall enough to be of much worry but short enough to be more than just dangerous. It peers into every window it passes and when it stops she takes a step forward - and breaks into a run when it puts its hand into the gaping hole in the side of a dilapidated house and drags a man out by the legs between its bloated fingers. _

_The hooks of her 3DMG disengage with a snap and a hiss of pressure just as the clamps in her hands close down on the change of blades. _

_She doesn't even know what she's saying when the lines tighten and she sails off her feet with a swirl of dust and dirt. She's being pulled - gently, at first, and then with force until she's flying, blades held out to the side and catching the dying light of the sunset. They meld into a blur of silver reflections and steel as she begins to spin, around and around until the world is a whirlwind of colors that bleed into each other. _

"_Put him down, you piece of shit!"_

* * *

_She doesn't remember her father ever being this strong - or she's grown weaker. That would make sense. That would make a lot of sense. She couldn't -_

"_Let me go," she shrieks, clawing at the arms around her waist, but her father is everything she never was in height and he hasn't been spending the last few hours of his life running around the town like a madwoman, killing anything in his path and leaving behind the rest. _

"_This is the last boat," he says even as he struggles to keep her still. "I am not leaving you here, Margareta. I am not leaving you!" _

"_You should! It's my job!" The last word cracks and fails and dissolves into ragged crying that makes her feel like she can't breathe. "It's my _job... _I still need to..."_

"_I've had enough taken away from me today," her father says as he pulls her away from the rails and they go thundering to the floor of the ferry together. She roils and writhes like a crazed animal, her nails raking over her father's arms and digging grooves into his skin and all the while she wheezes with the effort as though her lungs don't have enough space or capacity for the sounds she wants to make. All around them the seated refugees are in different stages of shock and grief - some are crying into their hands, some are frozen, some are forfeiting their last meal over the side of the boat. _

_But all of them are lost, and all are frightened._

"_Let me go," she says one last time before she loses her voice to the weeping and she slumps there, wailing into her father's shirt with his arms around her like it's the only thing keeping her alive - and perhaps it is._

* * *

She's halfway done with grooming the second to last horse in line when the staring gets too annoying and she finally turns on him, her one free hand resting on a hip.

"If I ask you what you're looking at, will you stop being creepy?" Grete says, hitting the brush against the horse-post to get rid of excess dust and hair. Levi just wrinkles his nose at the cloud that rises from it and crosses his arms. She doesn't know why he watches when it so obviously disgusts him.

"The brat clings to you."

She rolls her eyes and sighs. "Which one of all?" she asks before she drags the brush down across the horse's flank again, going back to her work. "No, wait. Let me guess. Eren? He's just a child, Levi."

"Hmph."

"You don't get jealous, so don't even try playing that card," she goes on, her fingers tangling in the roan's mane. "What is it that bothers you? Is it because he's so animated and you're..."

"And I'm...?" he continues where she left off, daring her to finish the sentence. She's been spending too much time around the beanpole, picking up bad habits.

"And you're you," she ends cryptically. She puts the brush away and moves to the front, taking the filly's snout in her hands. It's soft and warm and whiskery, and the horse's breath smells of apples. Someone's been giving them treats when she's not looking. "Is it so bad he's finally found some common ground with one of us?"

"He's still a wild card," Levi supplies, watching as she coaxes the snags in the horse's main loose with careful fingers. "Don't get too attached."

"Everything dies at some point," Grete says, very quiet. "I won't let it make me live in fear."

He sighs. What a typically Falkmann answer. "Do as you like."

* * *

_He doesn't lift his arms from over his eyes even when he hears something slam down on the table in front of him. _

"_What do you want?"_

"_What I want is my bed, but since you're up at this ungodly hour and gallivanting about I have to follow you. Commander's orders." _

"_He said that, did he?" _

"_Yes," the annoying woman says, pushing his legs off of the table with decisive hands. Why is she _touching _him? He lets his arm drop just so he can glare at her properly. "Yes, he said that, and God help me, I will become your shadow before I let you misbehave." _

"_I'm not a kid." He doesn't even know why he's not just ignoring her. That'd be simpler. _

"_Then stop acting like one," she shoots back, and pours herself a cup of tea with momentum and determination that is more in place on the battlefield than the dining hall. "I'm Major Grete Falkmann, and I serve as Veterinary Officer to the Fourth Squad." _

"_I didn't ask." _

_If anger had a sound, the look on her face would make it. "I know you didn't, but I told you anyway. So stop calling me 'woman.'"_

"_Whatever, woman."_

"_Why, you..."_


	6. the one with lots of steam

**a/n: **these are all prewritten and weren't actually intended for publishing, so if they seem a little short... :P

* * *

**4. THE EMPEROR**

_taking action, using power_

"Men are only as loyal as their options."

- Bill Maher

* * *

The flare goes up with the speed of a bullet, streaming black smoke - a mark cut out in the shape of danger against the sky, and Amsel sees Erwin's head snap to the side at the sight.

The sun is high and the day is warm, and the forest is a canopy of golds and greens. The field that stretches out between the formation and the line of trees isn't long in distance, and they should be able to cover it in time. The thundering of hooves drowns out everything but the loudest of voices, but she can still hear the sound of Erwin's voice as Mike catches up with his horse so they can talk. She looks over her shoulder and stands a little taller in the saddle to compensate for the jarring it causes in her jaw.

Someone on her left surpasses, a young man on a dark horse (Martin? Marvin? Merle? _Blitzkrieg? _ she can never remember) urges his filly forward until it's haunch-to-haunch with Erwin's ride.

"Sir! It's an Aberrant - it's broken formation and is gaining on us from behind!"

And now she turns her head again to look at the shape that's throwing a shadow over the troops as long as it is wide, and grits her teeth at the titan's awkward, slamming steps. It looks like it got pushed out of the wrong end of a very narrow pipe, all twisted knees and locked arms and gaping mouth, but it still runs like the devil... and there's something tiny and dark just barely keeping out of its reach. She has to squint against the light until she realizes the dot is a horse and the wild swaying of the grass preceding it is because the gelding is running at such a speed the stalks don't even have time to part before being broken and bent.

"Someone's back there," Amsel says, and watches as the young man - she'll call him Beanhead for now - turns with a desperate look in his eyes.

"It's the major! We - we were scouting together and I didn't notice... _I let it get too near_!"

She turns around again so fast she almost gets whiplash. The horse and rider are more defined now that she has a name to put to the shape, and now she can see the frenzied flapping of the Survey Corps cape flying out behind the small person on the dappled gelding's back - and their head of fine, sand-colored hair. Shit. It really is her.

"Keep advancing," Erwin shouts. "We have to get to the forest. It's our best chance at taking the titan out."

"Yes, sir!" Beanhead responds, but not before he throws a last look over his shoulder at the titan. His eyes are still fixed on the distant horse and rider when he turns to face forward.

The formation takes a steep turn toward the dipping corner of the forest, but not before Amsel catches Levi looking back. He raises a brow at her questioning glance and faces forward as well with enough pomp to make the one motion a parade all on its own. Emotions from a half-pint. Well, she'll be damned.

Erwin's voice rings out over the formation like the song of a horn sailing over the tangled chaos of too much sound.

"Onward!"

_Be safe_, she thinks as she leans forward into the gallop of her horse and narrows her focus to the line of trees ahead.

When the formation races into the forest they dissolve and split into teams that move through the trees in trickles and streams, and when Erwin gives the word the switch to 3DMG is made - and not a moment too soon. Amsel is being lifted up and away by the pull of her gear when something darts into the forest, followed by the crashing, chaotic floundering of the Aberrant that runs directly into the trunk of the tree and spins away with the momentum, breaking branches and destroying the underbrush with its lumbering legs.

The blur that is Grete's horse takes off into the forest just as she jumps from the saddle like a goddamn grasshopper, narrowly missing the Aberrant's outstretched, seeking hand.

Beanhead is some trees away, hanging sideways to watch the chase.

"Major!" he yells just as hooks bury themselves deep into the trunk they're leaning on. Seconds later she's joined them, scaling upward with impressive speed, her boots thunking heavily on the bark. She stops when she has two feet of line left and sighs, wiping at her temple with a wrist, the mess of her hair turning to the color of butterscotch in the sunlight. The titan stares up at them and paws at the base of the tree.

"It's gotten longer," Amsel notes, quirking a brow.

"I know!" Grete says as though she hadn't just finished running for her life but a moment ago. "I need to trim it again."

"You alright?"

The smile falls away from her best friend's face as she looks up. "I'm fine."

"Major," Beanhead repeats, and Grete lifts her eyes to him. "David and Walter...?"

"I'm sorry," Grete apologizes quietly, and Beanhead's face tightens to a point like he's swallowed something unpleasant.

"I see," is all he says.

Amsel unsheathes her blades in one movement, letting the sound startle Beanhead out of his slump. "Let's get to work. I'm taking the left. Distract it," she tells them before she lets herself fall, listening to Beanhead's sound of surprise and then the click of Grete's disengaging gear. Then they're hurtling down together in tandem, the slap of Grete's cape loud in their ears.

"Bet I can land the finishing blow before you!" Amsel taunts, and Grete laughs before she readies her blades.

"You're on!"

* * *

In the end it's a combination of both that brings the Aberrant down. They swing past its heels together, blades singing, and sever the tendons there with clean slices before Grete wheels around back and Amsel lets the pull of the gear yank her upward.

Cut again. Arms, this time.

The titan stomps around, hands flopping limply, distracted when Grete zips past its face. She doesn't even look back when it snaps at the tail of her coat, the crush of its teeth echoing in the forest. The tiny major just angles her body upward and aims for the canopy, riding the silver lines until she races past Amsel in a blur of green and brown.

"Thirty seconds!" she cries in a voice too large for her body. "Do it now!"

"I get it," Amsel calls back, and then allows the gravity of her center to drag her down the tree trunk. She pushes off with her legs and takes off in a shower of splinters. She lifts her arms until she can feel the strain in her shoulders and stays in-stance even as she's drawn into a spin. She turns the hooks loose and lets momentum do the rest.

The strike is deep and wide, and the wedge of flesh that flies from the Aberrant's neck wobbles when it hits the ground. Seconds later the entire titan goes down, shaking the trees and making the leaves in the canopy whisper. People gather around its head and shoulders, but the first to be there, of course, is Hanji. To her credit, this time she isn't howling or making a professional mourner of herself. She only stands there as Amsel and Grete come to ground and actually says something before she flings herself at Amsel.

"Did you absolutely have to kill him?"

Thwap. Hanji attachment now acquired, Amsel thinks as she feels Hanji's hands grasp at her harness.

"If you hadn't noticed, _it _was trying to eat Grete."

"They do that," Hanji dismisses, the crease between her brows growing in wrinkliness and intensity. "Would you accuse rain of being wet? He could have been a valuable test subject..."

Amsel shakes her arm. Nope. Hanji still firmly adhered. The woman's like velcro. "You say that about all of them."

The squad leader's still hanging off of her when Grete approaches them, sheathing her blades and neatly covering the bulk of her gear with her tattered cloak.

"Grete! You agree with me, don't you?"

"What about?" the major says, shaking dust off of her cape lazily.

"About my test subjects!"

"No comment."

"That's not fair - you have to take a side!"

"I believe there are horses in need of my expertise."

"Hey, don't just _walk away!_"

* * *

The makeshift Survey Corps camp stands in a small secluded area off the side of the forest, its modest canvas tents barely distinguishable amongst the sea of grass.

Erwin watches as officers move in and out of the boundaries. The major is tending to four horses tied to a post together that will return to the cities riderless - the cost of being daring. She looks tiny under the animals that stand at fifteen hands each, with the horses' legs being taller than her own. She has to jump up a little bit each time she needs to switch which side the bridles are on, and she turns to Amsel with a frown when the lieutenant stops her from raising her arms.

"What? What is it?" he hears the major say, and then Amsel is literally picking Falkmann up by the waist and holding her at the needed height with apparently no effort. Falkmann bristles like a porcupine and kicks her feet out, but still Amsel does not let go.

"There. See? Problem solved. Now you don't have to wait for Ness."

"_This isn't funny!_"

Amsel just throws her head back and laughs like she's never seen or heard of bad things ever happening, and the sound makes something quick and vivid burst across the spaces in his mind and heart, like a flame flaring to life in the core of a cooling hearth. It frightens him, and there is not much Commander Erwin Smith fears.

The cost of being daring.

"Erwin."

"Mike?"

"You seem... engrossed."

He has to smile a little at that. "Only thinking."

"You do a lot of that."

Someone has to. And it always seems to be him - but he's always stepped up for it. It's a choice. Even if it doesn't feel like one.

"_That isn't a choice, you shithead. Who would pick the alternative_?"

"You're smiling again. Are you feeling well?"

Erwin just waves him off. "I'm fine."

These are the last few days of relative peace they will have, and those who will live to remember them will cherish them. All soldiers are made ready for war, but what do simple soldiers know of the battles of gods and giants? Little enough to be considered comfort, and it is all they have. Even gods dream.

It is what keeps them alive.


	7. the one with all the comforting

**a/n: **important to note that more backstory will be coming soon, but if you read between the lines there's quite a bit of info there already! ;) thank you for the alerts and faves, they're very welcome. i'd love to hear what you think! c: also, **SPOILERS ABOUND FOR THOSE NOT CAUGHT UP WITH THE MANGA. **now you're ready to move on.

* * *

**5. THE HIEROPHANT**

_a search for truth_

"The man who never alters his opinions

is like standing water, & breeds reptiles

of the mind."

- William Blake

* * *

That night she dreams of Shiganshina.

Of her house standing without walls in the middle of a barren, wind-blasted plain, and having to eat a meal with fork and knife while watching strange bloated imitations of crows pick at carrion all around her. Her mother is there, arranging dead flowers in a vase of white porcelain with blue enamel on it – that had been her favorite, and it'd always been filled with beautiful things and colored pebbles that shone when the sunlight went through the water.

The food tastes bitter and dirty and she has to put down her fork to cover her mouth. She can't take another bite, she's thinking as her mother asks her what's wrong. Nothing, she says, pushing the plate away with an elbow and looking down at her. It's so hot, and the air smells of titan and burning hair and ash, and she can't understand why her mother can't see it. She closes her eyes so she can't watch while the crows eat with an appetite that far surpasses hers, but the sound of their beaks moving under the flesh of the dead things still reaches her.

"What's wrong?" her mother says again, and when she takes Grete's hand in hers Grete sees that the nails have been ripped out at the beds and bruises mottle the skin around the bony wrist. She can't breathe. Oh, God, they're all going to die.

Her mother gathers her hair in one ruined hand and brushes it over the opposite shoulder, and she shudders at the tickle of it against her cheek. It's like it was before she joined the military, hanging past her elbows in waves, the color of what her father liked calling honey-cake. Honey-cake, firefly, butterscotch, dear heart, what's the matter? No, no. She shuts her eyes again and tenses when her mother begins to braid, over and under, like she's a child sitting on her mother's knees and waiting patiently so she can run and play outside without having to worry about _hair_.

It is such a silly thing, but it had seemed so important then. So important.

"Please stop," she gasps, trying not to cry. Now all she can smell is rot and decay, as though she's standing close to meat left too long uncured.

"It's alright," her mother soothes. "You left me, but I forgive you. I love you, busy bee. I always will."

* * *

The third time she wakes up, he expects it.

She's always restless the night before a big change – tomorrow they're going to be taking the brats to a safehouse and leaving the city – and the rest of the Survey Corps behind. She's been tossing and turning ever since lights out, which is almost normal, except for the kicking and murmuring.

Now even though she's got her back facing to him, he can tell she's awake and anxious. It's there in the tight cords of muscle between her shoulders. He lets his eyes trail over the short curl of her spine. There are long red half-bruises under her arms and above her waist, where the harness of her gear rubs into her skin. One of the lines crosses over the still-angry starburst of shining scar tissue she'd gotten from the rubble of Stohess' church lancing into her shoulder. The purple blotching of broken ribs still hasn't faded, either.

She fidgets again before he flips on his side and nestles his chin in the dip between her neck and shoulder. He feels her tense and turn her head.

"Relax," he says, and the word sounds so very loud in the dark room.

She sighs and draws nearer. "Look who's talking..."

"You need sleep, pinhead," he mumbles into her back, and hears her laugh a little under her breath.

"You do too," she replies. She pauses and then turns again so that she's facing him, hands tucked up between them. He just shuts his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of her lashes skittering over the sweep of his collarbone. "Did I wake you?"

"No."

"You're a terrible liar," she says quietly, and smiles when he scoffs against her hair. She stays there for a while longer, listening to the thrum of his heart beating steadily. Thud-thud, thud-thud. It's such a comforting sound. It means life and warmth and health. Life. That's an integral one. She tells herself that she needs to press closer so she can erase and burn away the feeling of the nightmare specter's fingers running through her hair. They don't do this often – they can't, of course – and when they do she tries to stay awake as long as she can. Chances like these don't come often. And after tomorrow...

"I need to be able to breathe," he says, and she gasps and loosens her hold on him.

"Sorry!" she amends and pulls her fringe down over her face. God, that was embarrassing. She's in the middle of wishing she could disappear when his hand comes to rest at the back of her head, the heel of his palm pushing her toward him.

"Hm," is all he offers as he angles his face downward into the fuzz at the back of her nape. "Stop apologizing."

"Sor – I'll try."

He might be smiling but she doesn't know for sure. She just lets herself remain there until the heat in her cheeks dies down and she doesn't feel so inclined to evaporating.

Later, when the quiet in the room doesn't seem so oppressive anymore as it does peaceful, and she's tucked into his side, almost feeling sleepy again, she's paying attention to the rise and fall of his breath. Asleep before her, as always. He takes sleep where and when he can, at times when all she can do is worry and anticipate until she can barely sit still any longer. But here they are, together, even though five years ago she'd have looked at him and choked on something at the thought of being _with him_. Now – now, she could almost say...

"I love you," she whispers into her hands, testing it, and she's surprised by how natural it sounds. Like she's been saying it forever. What a dumb thought. It makes the blush come back to her face as though it never left. When she's finally dozed off, head lolled to the side and cheek pressed to the arch of his shoulder, he opens his eyes and stares into the dark, thinking about how much things have changed.

* * *

The next morning he watches out of the corner of his eye as Grete swings herself into the saddle of her dappled gelding, her cape fluttering around her elbows. She wheels around to face the kids, her horse's hooves clicking on the cobble of the courtyard.

"Stay close and keep your heads down," she tells them, pulling her hood up. "We'll tell you more about what we're planning when we get there. Squad Leader Hanji should be joining us soon. Don't break formation and you should be fine. Let's move out."

To their credit, the recruits keep quiet until they're well outside and after Hanji has met up with them, exuberant and energetic as always. He takes point while Grete hangs back – she's good with the younger ones, probably because she's better than most at talking and understanding, though she never claims it's so. It'll make babysitting duty easier on them.

She's looking ahead and trying to narrow her awareness to the sidle of the horse beneath her when Eren pulls up next to her.

"Something wrong?" she says. He doesn't look up.

"I just wanted... to say – "

"Stop," she interrupts gently, and she sees him flinch. "It wasn't your fault."

"If I'd acted earlier," he goes on, his hands tightening around the reins to the point of pain. "If I'd acted earlier, maybe..."

Grete tilts her head back to look up at the sky between the branches passing above them, the hood slipping a little back. "If I'd taken my mother with me on an errand I was running that afternoon, she might still be alive today." She knows when the words sink in because his eyes widen and he averts his gaze back down to his knuckles. "We can do that all day. Go back and ask ourselves 'what if.' We can't change what's happened, but we can let it change us and what we'll do in the future. Experience, yeah?"

"Yeah," he repeats, a cross between utter shame and relief making war on his face. Did he think she was going to blame him?

"We all knew what we signed up for," she says at last. "And I'm sure that if they had the chance to choose to protect you again, they'd take it. That's just how things work around here."

He grows silent after that, and she pretends not to notice when his shoulders shake and tears splash onto the horn of his saddle. The slender girl who follows him around like a second shadow catches up with them shortly after, and Grete doesn't miss the glare she sends over. My goodness. Protective, aren't we? Grete only raises a brow in return before pressing her heels into the gelding's sides and sliding into a trot. She passes Hanji and Levi at the front just as she speaks.

"I'm going to go on ahead and make sure the coast is clear. We're near the outer rim. Keep an eye on them."

And then she's gone, leaving a trail of rising dust behind her and a frown on Levi's face.

"She wanted to come along," Hanji says when a very familiar dip appears between Levi's brows. "She wouldn't have if she didn't think it was important. Though watching you try to defend her is kind of sweet, I have to admit. Caring isn't easy, is it?"

The glare she gets in return would burn entire fields if it could. Apparently _everyone_ is in a wonderful mood today.

"Op. Did I hit a nerve?"

"Shut up. Pointless yammering is annoying."

"That's a 'yes,' then."

* * *

"_We don't know if it's true."_

_The statement doesn't make the air in the room feel any lighter. She has to keep her eyes on the flowers in the vase on the nightstand near Erwin's hospital bed, but then it begins to remind her of something else, so she goes back to staring at the bedpost as though it's going to come alive any moment. Her hands are curling into the back of the corporal's chair with force enough to break something, but she can't feel anything. They'd joked before about how titans looked like ugly versions of human caricatures, but she'd never thought... _

_She's going to be sick. _

_She has to look up when Hanji rests a hand on her arm. "Grete...?"_

"_I'm fine," she says between clenched teeth. She's not going to lose it here, in front of poor Connie, who's already been through so much already. "Continue." _

"_What about Eren and Reiss?" she hears the commander ask, and Hanji slips away. _

"_That ties into my next topic..."_

* * *

"_What you said earlier – I don't think these are the hands of a murderer."_

_She looks at the differences between him and her. Her knuckles are browned and toughened by the sun, set beneath average fingers with round nails. Several of them are cracked. She'd been holding on too tight to the chair earlier. She hadn't even realized just how much. His are pale, larger, and incredibly clean – there isn't even a hint of dirt around the cuticles of his nails. Typical Levi. _

"_You don't have to – "_

"_Shoosh," she says, scooting closer and covering the hand in her palm with another of hers. "I'm trying to make a point." _

_He just sighs and sits back, wondering why he's letting her say it anyway. She looks different out of uniform. Almost ordinary. Her nightshirt bunches up around her legs as she crosses them. They're very nice and toned and that train of thought needs to stop right there because it does not sound like him at all._

"_You've saved a lot of people too," she continues, her fingers lacing through his. "And it's not just you. It's all of us. But... even if what Hanji proposed is real, I don't think it makes us killers anyway. When your horse's leg goes lame, you save it the grief and suffering of going on like that. I'm sure, more than anything, that it's a mercy. Don't you think so?" _

"_It had to be a farm analogy," he finally remarks. She smacks him on the arm in reprimand._

"_Serves me right for trying to be emotional with you," Grete says, her brows rising until they're almost hiding in her hairline. "Whoa!"_

_And suddenly they're nose-to-nose, so close he can see bursts of freckles along her nose and cheeks and the astonished circle of her eyes. Some of her lashes are the color of her hair – lighter, like the sun's been at them – and he doesn't miss the squeak she makes when he moves over her, putting the hand he's holding to the side. _

"_Are you finished?"_

_She huffs into his face so that his bangs fly upward for a moment before falling down over his face again. "Just about," she replies flippantly, but she smiles against his mouth when he kisses her and winds her arms around his neck. _

"_Thanks," he murmurs into her ear. She just tightens her hug and smiles wider. _

"_Say that again?"_

"_No." _


End file.
